


My Dear Philippe

by ragnar_rock



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Epistolary, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnar_rock/pseuds/ragnar_rock
Summary: Philippe and Chevalier exchange letters during Chevalier's exile abroad.Requested by hopelesslyaddicted





	1. Chapter 1

  
How shall I start this? "Dear"? Such an understatement. "My dear? My love? My heart my other self"? Hollow words too shallow and too formal for you my dearest Philippe. I cannot bear that were live in a world where there is such distance between us that a letter is even called for, but so it is and so I must write you. I must touch this paper and caress your name because I cannot touch you or caress your lips. You would tease me if you were here for how tears spring to my eyes at the thought of your lips.

Tongues are wagging at Versailles. Do they ever do anything but plot and gossip? I cannot remember now how those halls used to feel like home, even heaven when you were with me. I have not gone back. There is nothing there for me now. Heaven has become hell and even my beloved gardens here in Saint Cloud are a purgatory.

I would go to you if I could. Sometimes I wish that I was a stranger. A nobody, free to slip away to Rome without the bloody King of France throwing a tantrum.

Do you know they still say that you did it? They whisper when they think that I cannot hear, sometimes when they know that I can. I know that you are innocent. I would fight all of them if I could. I have had to stop myself from quite literally killing a few. It would do you no good for me to show such weakness, but sometimes God I wish that I could just kind them up and pin them together with my sword.

I wish that I could hear your voice. If I am to be forbidden to look at you, to touch you, to taste you then why can I not at least hear you? I would listen to the most preposterous gossip and ridiculous fashions just to hear you and know that you were there, safe and in my reach.

I have enclosed some funds to perhaps improve your accommodation if at all possible. Please tell me that you are at least comfortable? If there is anything more that I can do for you, anything at all. I am at your service.

 

I miss you more than I can bear.

Yours,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My dear Chevalier,

 

Let us pretend that I am not still awaiting your answer. I am a prince of the blood, I need no excuse to write you twice consecutively and yet here I am.

Yesterday my brother humiliated me in court for wearing a colour that was 'far too garish' and 'diverted attention and therefore authority' from him. Honestly, the larger the ego the more delicate and his is the largest in the world. Needless to say, today I wore black to appease him. He did not say anything against a mourning gown.

You would have laughed then, I know you are proud of me as you read this. I wish that I could see you. If you find yourself an Italian prince more handsome than me I shall have to declare war on Rome.

I will allow you a month to respond to this letter before I worry properly and send someone to go and check on you, so I suggest that you hurry if you do not wish to deal with a spying chaperone.

Madame de Montespan has not exactly mourned your absence. She told me the cruelest little folk tale that whenever a melody repeats in ones head it means that ones lover is being unfaithful at that very moment. That woman is full of such pleasantries.

I had a dream that you had run out of money and sold the ring that I have you, but Madame de Clermont got it back for you. Do not dare try to pull this stunt in reality or I shall not forgive you. The ring I gave you was not from my purse but my heart. It is not to be exchanged for shoes or breakfast.

Everything is so dull without you here.

I have enclosed more funds, treat yourself to new cuffs since I cannot be there to sample the local fashions with you.

 

Write.

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

Mignonette,

 

Forgive me my delay, but there is nothing in Italy worth writing about.

Perhaps the king and I ought to trade places. Here, there is no such thing as a pattern too garish nor an ego too large: he will gain a valuable learning experience, and I will bravely step into his role.

If I find an Italian prince who is even remotely handsome it will probably be cause for a national celebration. Naturally, my stallion, I would immediately be wed to him by the pope himself if it would bring you here.

Rest assured that my bed has been since I arrived, and will be until I am returned to you, cold and miserably empty. After all, whoring oneself out to an ugly moustache is a skill best left to experts such as Madame de Montespan. Wouldn't you agree?

I am more comfortable here than at the Château d'If, probably something to do with the presence of furniture and windows, but it is hardly Paris. Your ring is safe, though I am tempted to sell my brother to fund my wardrobe.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

At last a letter! I was beginning to fear that you had forgotten how to write, or that perhaps your hands were too full of Italian boys to hold a pen. It gladdens me that there is no need for me to be jealous of your body or of the local cuisine.

If I could trade my brother for you, I would in this very instant. (If you are reading this Marshall, go ahead and tell my brother, I dare you). Perhaps he could learn to relax or at least catch some sort of disease. I don't care as long as I have you back.

Believe me, my heart, if I could be there with you now I could. An exile with you would be more like a brief visit to paradise. Not to mention, the conversation would be more interesting and my bed more exciting.

I wish that I could truly believe that you would keep your bed empty, but neither of us is particularly good at resisting a lovely morsel when he falls into our lap. What matters to me is your heart. You swore that you have given it to me, and it is very rude to take back gifts.

Today was quite exciting in court. An impostor tried to storm right into the palace claiming to be the true king. You should have seen the look on my brother's face! Oh, if I could have captured it forever I would have.

Against my better judgement, I send with this letter more funds. If I cannot spoil you here, I expect you to do it for me in Rome.

Is it truly beautiful there? Have you gazed at the works of masters? Do those bare marble cocks remind you of me?

I do not care if you detail what you had for breakfast, write. You drive me to a pleading wife.

 

You are ever in my thoughts,

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

Arriving in Rome from the Château d'If is like arriving in Paris from Versailles: a welcome return to civilisation from being imprisoned at the King's pleasure. And a pleasant change from being surrounded by rats.

The Mancini household is the busiest in Italy. Every day we have new guests from the elite of society all over the country, though I am still waiting to meet the Duc de Nevers. I look forward to congratulating him on his incredibly poor job of educating you.

Naturally the sisters adore me, but I will continue to fight them off for your sake, my darling. The fine marble cocks that line their hallways tragically do not line their beds, and I will not settle for a woman like some desperate, penniless exile.

On the subject, my brother is having a wonderful time: so far he has attracted the attention of three dogs and a blind kitchen-maid, without even having to pay any of them.

 

I miss you.

 

All my love,

Philippe  
  


* * *

My Philippe,

 

I am surprised that you find fewer rats in Rome, than Versailles. I had always been under the impression that there was quite the infestation. Perhaps all of my impressions are false, and there is indeed more lovely company with far less hideous facial hair than you had led me to believe. These sisters that paw at you, are they beautiful?

Pascal de Saint-Martin makes for poor company. He is ever the faithful and well behaved subject before my brother - you would think that it was him who he wanted to fuck. Perhaps it is. There is an awful thought, I do believe that I have lost my appetite for dinner.

A new shipment of lace arrived from Chantilly. I bought the finest of course, not that I need it, but I would sooner have it at my chin than my brother's. I made a gift of some for you.

The court gossip wears thin and makes for a tiring tale, though the Comtess d'Ailly gave birth in the middle of a concert this afternoon, that was quite interesting if only because the Marquis de la Trémoille fainted.

Minette has been unwell. She complains of pain often, and, despite your absence we speak more often in anger than affection. Some days, I believe she deserves a husband like me, on others I feel as though I should never have married her for her own sake.

The Mancini family is very kind, and I am indebted to them for caring for you as they are. I would rather not imagine you and Philippe-Jules in the same room as one another, but if I must, surely you must thank him for leaving such a fine education to pass on to me.

I thought I caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye in the theatre last night. Of course, when I looked again there was no one there, and of course, it is impossible. Silly the tricks ones mind can play on them.

 

I miss you too. A great deal.

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

My darling, the Mancini sisters are the most beautiful ladies in Europe. Even the marble statues do not compare. Tragically, the same cannot be said for the rest of the court, although the women do at least wear their moustaches with more style than the men.

Pascal de Saint-Martin has always made for terrible company - I am surprised it has taken you so long to realise. If he were the king's mistress he would at least fall out of favour and vanish within a week.

I have a new coat, and the envy of half of Rome. If you were not so far away I would recommend my new tailor, but there is no point in filling your wardrobe with such elegant dresses whilst I cannot appreciate them.

Perhaps you ought to send her away as well - absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say, and fresh sea air does wonders for the sick. I hear they have an empty room at the Château d'If.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

If you were here I would not have to suffer such dull company as Pascal de Saint-Martin. You are not guiltless for my suffering. If you could only keep yourself out of trouble you would still be here, though I suppose that would be asking you to be someone other than yourself.

Do remember that you are no "desperate, penniless exile" when surrounded by the Mancini sisters and their beauty.

Your marriage advice is as useful and insightful as ever and will naturally be given the consideration that it deserves.

It is late as I write this, well into the early hours of morning. It seems that I have lost favour with Morpheus these days and sleep will not find me.

Whether alone or with my every mignon my bed is empty without you and before the fire or in the sun I am always cold. I need a war, then at least perhaps I would remember what it is like to feel heat in my veins.

My happiness has left with you.

 

Sincerest affection,

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

If you are going to pick a war, you must make it one near Rome. Do you remember 1667? Perhaps we could cause a less painful scandal this time.

You were right, my star: Rome is full of rats. The Cardinal Chigi and Hortense already want to get rid of me. If I am exiled or killed perhaps I will be allowed to return to France, although I would rather not come home in a box.

Philippe-Jules is vain and boring, and worst of all he appreciates my brother over me. I have no idea what you saw in him.

The water of the Tiber is almost as warm and clear as a bath. You should visit - there are hardly enough honest rumours here.

My nights are lonely without you stealing the bed and blankets, and then complaining every time I breathe.

I mourn your absence every day.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

I will never forget 1667. I thought in that moment that I had lost you. In all my life I had never known true fear until then. I would not wish for a war near Rome simply because I will not have you put in danger again, at least, not while I am not there to protect you.

If I am honest, my heart I have been on my best behaviour this week. With a little flattery, I think that I can perhaps convince my brother to let you return sometime soon. Hold onto hope, and keep your pretty little nose out of trouble until then if you can. I am worried to death as it is.

Philippe-Jules was simply the start. I had never considered that a man might bed a man before he...showed me the light and snapped up what was left of my innocence. I cannot be sorry for it. I would not have known that it was possible to be together with you as we are.

My heart, I have the faintest feeling that you are missing me. I would be there already if I could get out of Paris without my stupid brother stopping me. I will find a way, either for you to return or for me to travel to Rome. I am confident.

My nights are quieter without you muttering in your sleep, but I would trade all of my own rest to have you in my bed again.

My little pest, my dear little shit, my scoundrel I miss you with all of my heart.

 

I love you.

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

I pray that you are right - here there are only rumours that I have been eternally banished.

Naturally, I am being a delight of a guest. Marie is ever-grateful for my presence. Certainly by now you have heard the rumours, my stallion, but I assure you that there is still only one person whom I would fuck in a dress. Remind me to show you once you have convinced the King to bring me home.

Clearly you have gone mad in my absence - I do not mutter in my sleep, and your nights cannot possibly be more restful without me.

Do hurry in persuading your brother. I cannot bear all of this Italian for much longer, nor all of the accompanying moustaches. Especially not without you.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

My Philippe,

It pains me to tell you that Henriette has died. The consensus is that she was poisoned, which I reject. I believe it had more than a little to do with the pain she has been suffering for so long now, but no one will listen, especially with a more 'interesting' alternative in poison.

My love, as you can imagine she has blamed you in spite of the miles between you. I [blurred line].

I am not sure when, if ever I will be able to have you back.

Please be safe, I worry for you now more th[ blurred] ever.

I do not think that I can bear another year without you. Especially not now.

 

I miss you. I love you.

 

Your Philippe

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The distance separating Philippe and the Chevalier begins to create tension between them.

Mignonette,

 

Already I have lost several friends in Rome. I can only imagine how it is in France. You are in my thoughts, and in my prayers.

You must not believe any rumours. Certainly, I wanted to be rid of your wife no less than she wanted to be rid of me, but to sabotage my chance at returning home? She was not worth that.

Rome is busy - I can hardly begin to tell you how in a letter. I wish that I was with you, my stallion. There is so much that cannot be done with ink.

Take care.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

My dearest Philippe,

 

I hope that you understand that I would never believe such cruel slander. I knew you. I know that you would never be so cruel to is both.

I hope that for all of its activity Rome is treating you well. If you are in any danger I may not be able to bring you home but perhaps I could have you moved to a place of greater safety.

I understand. Believe me, I do. If I could hold you in my arms now I would die before I let you go.

No amount of men can satisfy me, and I cannot bear to sleep with any of them near me. My bed is as frigid as my wife, and sleep is as elusive as my brother's fashion sense.

I should not complain that I am lonely while you suffer in your moustached hell but... I am. I miss you.

I never believed in love before you know. A stupid fairytale. I don't think I even believed in it is a child, rather depressing really, but now...

I love you. I will always love you and I doubt that I could ever love anyone again as I love you. It is as if your crooked little heart was made to fit snugly side by side with mine. I will not surrender you.

 

Be strong, my heart, and remember that I love you.

 

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

I am not surprised about your bed, given some of the company you keep. Speaking of which, how is Pascal de Saint Martin? I have named Marie's new hat after him - it is feathery, useless and best left out of sight in a cupboard.

There are rumours that the Marquis D'Effiat will be accused of conspiracy. If he is exiled I will trade him for my brother - otherwise I will have to sell Charles into slavery to be rid of him.

Italy is boring without you. Marie's taste in shoes is pathetic, and her taste for scandal no better. I almost miss being woken by you strangling me in your sleep.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

I hope that your lack of reply does not mean a lack of feelings returned, but then, you never were one for blatantly expressing your feelings so. I suppose it is my own fault for sending my heart to battle naked.

I had heard rumours of the Marquis D'Effiat. I do hope that you are not involved for both of our sakes. It will be near impossible enough to bring you home to me as it is.

My dear heart, that was a single, isolated incident best forgotten. I am not so terrible a bedfellow, or at the very least, I do not talk before I wake. I would take listening to the nonsense that you babble in sleep over not hearing your voice at all in an instant.

My brother has seen fit to begin pestering me about marriage while my dear Henriette is barely cold in her grave. I could kill him, were it not treason and all of that. The last thing I could bear is to be married again. It is lonely now with my bed empty, but at least there is peace alone with my thoughts. To force me into marriage would take away even the relief of my own company.

For an entire week now I have been plagued by nightmares. I am more tired when I wake than when I go to sleep. I am exhausted. I have not suffered so many since I was fresh returned from my first battle. Again, I bore you with details of my sleep. Perhaps I think of sleep and you so closely as I cannot find one without the other. Do you know that even in my dreams they will not let me see you?

I had hoped to make you smile with some anecdote or particularly amusing gossip, but the blank paper cuts my memory short. Instead I can only send my love and fresh funds to try and make your stay a more pleasant one.

 

I love you.

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

What is this talk of battle? You know that any part of you will always be well-received here, my stallion, especially if it is naked.

Of course I am not involved. I was given a choice between coming home to you and starving to death whilst my limbs froze off, isolated in the middle of the ocean. My dear, your wife might have been unbearable, but she was never worth prison.

Your brother cannot force you to do anything - he might be King of France, but you have the love of the court. And who would he marry you to? I can't imagine the princesses of Europe are all lining up for the chance to be poisoned.

Remember, darling, no matter how far away you are still the centre of my universe.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

Would you believe that during sword training today I was defeated horrendously - and by a rather new recruit at that! I probably should not have told you and not shattered any illusions you may have left that your lover was once a war hero, but well, all I could think of was you. I wish that you were here, even to mock me in times like this.

There is little else to tell. I got ill. I got better. My brother prefers me in mourning attire, I am sure of it. Less colour, less distraction from his stupid moustache. I do not know how long I will be able to fight off a new bride. He is as persistent as he is irritating.

I hope that this finds you well. Do not hesitate to ask if you are in need of anything at all.

 

All my love,

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

Mignonette,

 

Marie has built a new bathhouse. Perhaps the French court should move there - it is a nicer country hut than Versailles.

I understand that the court has become pathetic in my absence. No-one writes about anything other than the King these days. I can almost feel his moustache's presence, rambling on about obedience and scaffolding as though he was really here.

Speaking of moustaches, Italy is boring: the population is made up of jealous husbands who won't invite me to their parties. It is almost as if they don't trust me.

None of the Italians appreciate my new silks properly.

You are still my war hero, darling. Your brother cannot take that.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

I would be eager to accept any offer to go anywhere but here, but I am afraid you have painted a rather poor picture of Rome. My brother has a bad enough moustache but to suffer an entire country full of facial abominations? That is too much. You must be worshipped as a god there for your perfect face and perfect moustache. If you are not, then Rome does not know perfection when they see it.

A few of my closest confidants and I have come up with a rather exciting scheme against him. Nothing dangerous or treasonous, mind you, but if we are successful I will tell you of it and his reaction in great detail.

 

Love,

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

There is very little that can be said in a letter. Don't you agree?

Charles has caught some tropical disease. It would be a terrible shame if it were to become fatal - perhaps Louis would even bring me home to mourn as a family.

Rome is not tasteless; they are blind. Just this afternoon I was called old by a teenaged brat dressed in a mouldy curtain.

I miss France. I almost miss Versailles, although the Italian court has clocks that work. I miss you every day, my darling.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

My Philippe,

 

You old? The nerve if them - I am a year older still! They call me old in insulting you. Do not fret my heart, even if you were old you would still be the most beautiful person I have ever seen.

Perhaps it is the rain that makes me sentimental, but I feel as though our time together was a beautiful dream, lost when I awoke. You are gone as the flowers are gone and it has been so long that I can barely remember the scent of Spring.

I will pray for your brother, but there is little that I would not do to have you back.

I love you, as I will always love you.

 

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

Mignonette,

 

You can forget me so easily? Perhaps I should stay in Italy - at least here everyone remembers who I am.

My brother has recovered from his exotic illness just in time for us to die of boredom. We haven't been invited to any parties in over a week. Do you know, it is almost as if the Italians dislike us for some reason.

Marie's husband has a remarkable imagination for such a dull man. Apparently, I have turned his wife into a whore without ever seeing the inside of her bedchamber, and this is not a miracle worthy of the church.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

My Philippe,

 

Sometimes I very nearly wish that it was in my power to forget you. You are in my thoughts constantly. It seems that every taste, sight, touch or scent brings you to my mind. The wrong notes played in succession can put me in the darkest of moods for the harsh reminder that you are not here.

I envy both Marie and her husband simply for their proximity to you. I care not if he is right in his accusations or her in defending her innocence. If you sleep in another's arms, I only beg that you imagine that they are mine.

I am to meet my prospective wife tomorrow.

Were I less of a coward I would end my life today and save us both the trouble.

 

Please come back.

 

Your Philippe

 

* * *

 

Mignonette,

 

Do not give up hope yet. Rome is very busy at the moment - you must have heard some of the rumours.

I hope that you are not such depressing company in person, darling. After all of the effort I have been to, I do not want to come home to your melancholy. Court life is much more fun without it.

I have heard a lot about your future wife. Apparently, she is the plainest princess in Europe. I suppose it makes the bedding ceremony easier if she looks like a man when you squint. Is her moustache any worse than the King's?

 

I am trying to, my stallion.

 

All my love,

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Philippe,

 

I have heard the rumours. There are plots to put Versailles to shame and I have prayed that this time you were not stupid enough to get involved.

The princess Palatine is agreeable and kind to my children, there is little more I can hope for in a wife.

Try to keep out of trouble, or at least mortal peril.

 

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Mignonette,

 

When have I ever put myself in trouble? Remember it was your fault that I spent a month rotting in the worst prison in France.

Perhaps I should stay here after all, if your new wife is so nice. I might even send Philippe-Jules wrapped up with a bow as a wedding gift. Do try not to let your brother steal this bride.

 

Philippe

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps you should - Philippe

 

 

 


End file.
